


the fighter still remains

by Kyele



Series: a fighter by his trade [4]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, BDSM (different pairing), Blackmail, Butt Plugs, CBT, Dehumanization, Feels, Homophobia, Kink Meme, M/M, Nipple Clamps, On Purpose, Psychological Torture, Rape/Non-con - Freeform, References to forced orgasm, References to orgasm denial, References to ruined orgasm, Safe Sane and Consensual (different pairing), Sexual Slavery, Slut Shaming, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, Threats of Castration, Torture, Triggers, Verbal Humiliation, angsty feels, as in a character being triggered during sex, becaase that is exactly how big of a dick Rochefort is, collars (different pairing), flashbacks to conversion therapy, getting smacked around, one ticket for the nine o'clock handbasket express please, references to off-screen knifeplay/bloodplay, verbal feminization
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-03
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-16 04:55:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3475214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyele/pseuds/Kyele
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a prompt on the kink meme: <i>One day, Treville and Rochefort finally come to blows. After a few punches, it end up having hate-sex. Bonus if Rochefort is manipulative, teasing him with Treville's affair with Richelieu. </i></p><p>Except that I read "hate-sex" as "straight-up blackmail-aided non-con with angsty feels". Oops.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the fighter still remains

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TailorFox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TailorFox/gifts).



> For [this prompt](http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/2286.html?thread=3340526#cmt3340526) on the bbcmusketeers kink meme.
> 
> Thanks to OP for assuring me they were interested in this even after it took a left turn and boarded the handbasket express. OP, I sincerely hope you knew what you were getting into when you said you'd follow me into the darkest pit of hell, and that you're happy with the result. And shout-out to the other anons on the kink meme who assured me that they, too, were interested in something dark. It's good to know I'm not alone :)
> 
> On the plus side, I finally found my Treville voice. (Nearly 300k words of Richelieu/Treville and it's all been Richelieu POV so far.) On the minus side, I used it to write... this.
> 
> I'm going to hell.

The summons arrives shortly after dusk. It’s short and to the point, as it always is.

_You are required and directed to repair immediately to the Palais-Cardinal, to discuss a matter vital to the security of France._

The words are formulaic, recited by a man in the livery of the Red Guards. Treville has heard them a thousand times before. Only one thing has changed.

_By order of the Comte de Rochefort._

Lately, Treville has taken to pretending he doesn’t hear the last part. He reaches through his memories instead, summoning up the old conclusion. He vastly prefers to pretend that he’s walking this familiar path through Paris’ streets at the command of Cardinal Richelieu instead of the vile man who’s laid claim to Richelieu’s home, his position, his guards and servants and – in the final indignity – his lover.

Because Treville knows that’s what this is about. Rochefort cloaks his demands in the same language of France that Richelieu had once used. But both men want something very different from Treville. Treville is past wondering why. Neither men has ever left him in much doubt.

If it had been Richelieu summoning him, Treville would have fobbed off his Musketeers with an idle remark about his Eminence’s interminable paperwork, and told them not to expect him before dawn. Upon returning, Treville would have endured the good-natured ribbing with a smile. He’d have held the memories of Richelieu’s touch close and felt the ache and stretch of his muscles with pride as he walked through the practice-yards trying not to limp. Treville would never have had to come up with excuses for the various cuts and bruises littering his body, because while Richelieu had enjoyed marking him as much as Rochefort does now, Treville had been proud to wear Richelieu’s collar. And Richelieu had known that Treville had been proud, and his own pride had demanded no greater show; the Cardinal had always left his marks where they wouldn’t be seen, only felt, only served as a constant reminder to his lover that he was wanted and owned. With Richelieu, Treville had wanted such a reminder.

Rochefort is Richelieu’s opposite in every way. Rochefort has no interest in a willing lover. His interest is in taking something that had once been his rival’s and claiming it for his own. Richelieu had wanted to build. Rochefort wants to destroy.

Treville presents himself at the door to the Palais-Cardinal and states his business. He’s left waiting in the antechamber while the servant goes to fetch a guard. He wishes, for the thousandth time, that Rochefort had chosen another dwelling. That Rochefort doesn’t force Treville to relive his old memories every time he came here. That Rochefort doesn’t insist on sealing his conquest in Richelieu’s old home, his old chambers, and most particularly in the Cardinal’s old bed. But, of course, that’s the point. Rochefort isn’t just out to destroy France or Louis. He’s out to destroy everything Richelieu had ever touched.

The servant returns, a Red Guard following in his footsteps. Treville recognizes the guard. He’s not sure whether to be glad or sorry. Once he’d known several of the Red Guards by sight, those who had been most relied upon by Richelieu, those closest to the Cardinal’s councils. Most of them had gone out of the capitol after Richelieu’s death. But the leader of Richelieu’s personal guard had remained. Jussac.

“Good evening, Captain Treville,” Jussac says neutrally. “The Comte is waiting for you. If you’ll follow me?”

Treville takes off his hat and tucks it under his arm. “Lead on,” he says.

They walk down the corridors of the Palais-Cardinal together. At first neither of them speaks; the public areas of the mansion are no place for conversation. But as they move closer to the private chambers Jussac’s steps slow. Automatically, Treville matches his pace.

“You shouldn’t have come tonight,” Jussac says in an undertone. “Rochefort’s in a bad mood.”

“I had no way of knowing that.”

“It’s not too late. You can duck out the servants’ entrance – ”

“He’ll know.”

“I won’t tell him.”

“What about the man who opened the door? Or any of the others who have seen us walking together? Rochefort will find out and then it will be worse.”

Jussac doesn’t have anything to say to this. They both know it’s the truth.

“I’ll send word to Milady,” Jussac says at last. “You’ll need patching up after this.”

“I’ll be fine,” Treville says. It’s not the best lie he’s ever told, but as Richelieu would have been the first to tell him, he’s never been any good at dissimulation.

If nothing, else, Treville thinks, he’s proving Richelieu wrong now. It’s been six months since Richelieu had died in seclusion and been mourned with pomp and circumstance. Six months since the train had left Paris, escorted by some of Richelieu’s most trusted people, to convey his body back to the Richelieu estates for burial. Six months since those of them who remain have been keeping the most dangerous secret of all.

Treville can’t afford to think of those things with Rochefort. He can’t take the risk that anything will show in his face or his voice. Within these walls – within that chamber – Richelieu must be dead. Treville must be Rochefort’s kept victim. Jussac is the guard whom Rochefort suborned to poison Richelieu and bring about his natural-seeming death. Milady is the power-hungry opportunist cast off by Richelieu for having gone too far, whose path back to power and privilege is the result of good fortune and her own ruthless cunning.

They walk the rest of the way in silence. When they reach the door to Richelieu’s chambers – Rochefort’s chambers – Jussac says, “Good luck,” quietly, before he knocks to announce them both.

Treville’s lips twist in what might charitably be called a smile. “Thanks,” he mutters, stepping in to meet his fate.

* * *

Rochefort is seated behind Richelieu’s massive writing-desk, scowling furiously down at a piece of paper he’s marking with long, expansive scrawls. He barely spares a glance at Treville even after Jussac bows his way out and closes the heavy wooden doors behind them. Treville swallows his trepidation. Jussac’s right; this is going to be a bad one. And he knows from experience both good and bad how much sound those heavy doors can absorb.

It’s nearly ten minutes before Rochefort throws his pen down in disgust and looks up. He sees Treville standing patiently just inside the door and his eyebrows come down in anger and disgust.

“Standing in the presence of your betters?” he says, silky as an adder about to strike. “I thought I’d taught you better than that by now. _Kneel_ , slut.”

Treville obeys promptly. Even after all this time, the frisson of humiliation skitters down his spine, undimmed by the worse that Treville knows is coming. The only thing the six months under Rochefort’s thumb has taught him is how not to show it. The feelings themselves still come, every time without fail, as sharp as they’d been the first time Rochefort had presented Treville with proof of his affair with Richelieu and told Treville exactly how Treville was going to persuade Rochefort to keep his mouth shut.

“That’s better.” Rochefort rises and comes around the desk, unbuttoning his doublet as he does. He goes over to the small wardrobe in one corner of the room. “You’re getting better than that. I suppose one _can_ teach an old dog new tricks, with sufficient persuasion.”

Treville doesn’t grit his teeth. He knows what Rochefort means by _persuasion_. But he doesn’t rise to the bait.

“What’s that? Silence? Answer when your master asks you a question, slut.”

Treville doesn’t bother pointing out that Rochefort’s last utterance had been a statement, not a question. “I suppose so,” he agrees instead.

Rochefort stops disrobing. He turns and raises a pointed eyebrow. “What did you say?”

Treville makes himself unclench his hands. “I suppose so, _master_.”

“Better,” Rochefort allows. He goes back to removing his clothing. “But I think something’s still missing in your attitude. There’s still a distinct air of defiance. Don’t you think?” Rochefort closes the door to the wardrobe.

Deep breaths. “If you say so, master.”

“Hmm.” Rochefort walks over to stand in front of Treville. “Remove your clothing. You may stand.”

Treville does, folding each piece carefully and setting it aside. Rochefort allows this, though he must know it’s a delaying tactic; it’s also necessary so that Rochefort’s activities remain largely undetected. King’s favorite or not, sodomy is still against the laws of God and France. If it were otherwise Rochefort would have no hold over Treville. And Rochefort has no desire to end up swinging from a gibbet.

“Stop,” Rochefort orders sharply, when Treville is naked and goes to return to his kneeling position. Treville freezes in a parody of parade rest. He links his hands behind his back and takes deep breaths, reaching for calm as Rochefort circles him like a prospective buyer inspecting a stallion at a fair.

“What is this?” Rochefort asks. From behind Treville he reaches forward and places a single, invasive finger in a very private place.

Treville takes a deep breath. “You said two weeks ago that you had no time to waste on preparation, master,” he grinds out. “So – ”

A stinging slap on Treville’s buttocks warns him to stop talking. “I remember what I said,” Rochefort says mildly. “But it appears that you don’t. What were my exact words?”

“That you saw no need to waste your precious time on the comfort of a worthless slut. That such a slut as I should be able to just bend over and take your cock immediately, because that’s what I’m made for. Master.” Treville swallows, fighting the urge to vomit.

Unbidden his mind conjures a memory, two ghosts twined together on the bed in the center of the room. _You accept me so easily,_ Armand had marveled once. _It’s as if you were made for me._

Context is everything. Treville reaches for the emotions behind the old memory, the feeling of warmth and pride Armand’s words had inspired in him. Tries to substitute them for the humiliation Rochefort wishes to create. As always, the results are mixed at best.

“And you interpreted that as permission to touch yourself?” Rochefort’s fingers tap at Treville’s entrance again. They can’t slide right in; they’re blocked by the small metal plug Treville is wearing. When the messenger had come, Treville had bid him wait a few moments. He’d gone back to his quarters and prepared himself with stretching and lubrication, and inserted the plug to keep himself open, in anticipation of Rochefort’s impatience. With every step on the way here Treville had felt it rubbing at his insides. Yet another reminder of how completely Rochefort controls his life now.

“I understood it to be an order,” Treville lies, keeping his tone as deferential as possible. “Master.”

“Understood it? Or wished it?” Rochefort taps the plug again, harder, making Treville twist in instinctive reaction. “Ahh, that’s the truth, isn’t it? You were just looking for an excuse to touch yourself. To stuff your naughty hole. Were you thinking of me when you did it?”

“Yes,” Treville gasps. With hatred, with fear, with dread, yes, he’d been thinking of Rochefort.

“Yes, what?” Rochefort grasps the flat end of the plug. Treville thinks he means to draw it out, but instead Rochefort shoves it further in, all his not inconsiderable strength behind it. It’s not a large plug, only a finger’s width perhaps and not very deep, but Rochefort drives it inside Treville as if it’s his fist.

“Yes, Master,” Treville moans. The end of the plug digs directly against the place inside him that feels so good. Traitorously, his cock begins to plump and firm in reaction to the pressure. It’s well past what would usually be considered pleasurable but that’s always been how Treville has liked it. It had been how Armand had liked to deal it out, too, and he’d always made sure to give it to Jean that way. They’d been so perfect for each other.

Rochefort isn’t thinking of Treville’s pleasure. And he’s not expending any effort to make sure he stays on the right side of the line. But Rochefort’s had six months to condition Treville to his specifications, and it wouldn’t be the first time in those months that he’s made Treville’s body come over his mind’s objections, desperate orgasms usually more pain than pleasure.

“At least you’ve learned that much,” Rochefort says in dark satisfaction. He releases the plug, leaving it buried inside Treville, and gestures towards the center of the room. “On the bed, slut. Crawl.”

Treville drops back to his hands and knees obediently, crawling the few paces over to the bed before climbing himself up on it. It’s a high canopy four-poster. There’s a small set of stairs by its foot to make the process easier. Treville knows better than to use them where Rochefort can see. He hauls himself up onto the bed by main force instead.

“Look at those muscles ripple,” Rochefort says admiringly. Treville’s arms ache from lifting nearly his entire body weight, but he drags himself up to the head of the bed before letting himself fall. “I suppose I can see why Richelieu kept you around.”

Treville doesn’t flinch. It’s what Rochefort wants, and maybe Treville should give it to the Comte. But he can’t help treating his memories of Richelieu as precious treasures, and guarding them carefully. They dwell in the same place in Treville where he keeps the fragments of his soul and all his hopes for the future. If Treville can’t keep it shielded from Rochefort’s questing fingers, he’ll break.

“Knees apart,” comes the order. Treville obeys. “Stimulate yourself.”

Treville wraps shaking fingers around his cock. He only has time to pump twice before Rochefort is suddenly on top of him, seizing Treville’s hand and squeezing till the bones of Treville’s wrist grind together.

Treville knows a dozen ways to break the hold. Rochefort may be a dab hand with a blade but Treville has been fighting for survival on battlefields and in back alleys since he’d been a lad. Treville could have Rochefort’s throat opened and his life’s blood staining the floor before Rochefort could react.

And then Rochefort’s papers and secrets would be released, destroying many, Treville among them. Rochefort’s allies, still unknown and nameless, would sink back into the shadows. Treville would be hanged for treason. And everything Richelieu had worked for would be undone.

So Treville doesn’t break the hold. He lays there, and lets Rochefort hurt him, and cries out in pain the way he knows Rochefort likes.

“What were you doing?” Rochefort demands. That silky tone is back in his voice. Treville hates that tone. Its condescension prickles under his skin.

“You ordered me to stimulate myself,” Treville grinds out past the pain in his wrist.

Rochefort shakes his head. “And what made you think I was talking about _this_?”

There are disadvantages to being a skilled soldier. Treville has time to realize what Rochefort means to do, time to think of all the ways he could avoid the blow, time to force himself to lie still and let Rochefort strike his most sensitive place. The only comfort is that Rochefort releases Treville’s wrist in order to do it. But as pain explodes in his groin Treville is not in a position to appreciate it.

Instinctively Treville tries to curl onto his side, protecting his abused genitals. Rochefort’s weight on his hips stops him. So does the crushing grip Rochefort puts on Treville’s balls. The addition of Rochefort’s blunt nail pressed into Treville’s cockhead is just cruel, which, given the man in bed with Treville, means Rochefort digs it in deeper to make his point.

“What have I told you about this?” Rochefort inquires, calm and pleasant.

Treville pants for breath until he can shove the pain aside enough to answer. “I – I don’t – ”

Rochefort digs in deeper. Treville lets himself scream. It’s what Rochefort wants, anyway.

“Memory going?” Rochefort asks. “I can correct that.” His other hand squeezes.

Treville blacks out for a moment. When he comes to, Rochefort has released his grip.

“Now, listen closely,” Rochefort says. “I’ll only say this once more.”

He draws a knife from his belt and lays it on the bed. Its position, between Treville’s legs, is ominous.

“You see, I’m not a pervert,” Rochefort explains in that damnably mild tone that makes Treville want to smack him silly. “Not like you or your precious Cardinal. I’m not interested in any cock but my own.”

“Then why – ” Treville gasps.

Rochefort toys with the knife-handle. Treville shuts up.

“There’s only one thing I’m interested in bed, and that’s women,” Rochefort goes on. “Now, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, _you_ seem to be in my bed.”

Rochefort pauses here. Treville wisely stays silent.

The Comte nods in approval. “Let’s see if there’s anything left between your ears after years of bending over for Richelieu,” he purrs. “I only allow women in my bed. _You_ are in my bed. Now, think carefully, Captain…” Rochefort’s eyes glitter. “What does that make you?”

 _Brave,_ Armand had used to call him. _Foolish_ , too, at least as often. But only outside. Within these four walls, Armand had called him _brave,_ and _obedient_ , and _so good for me, Jean._ On a few rare occasions – usually while drunk – Armand had even said _beautiful_. Jean could never agree with that; he knows his own body too well, after years of soldiering. He knows he’s lined from weather and scarred from wounds. Knows there’s grey in his hair from stress and bags under his eyes from perennial exhaustion. But whatever words Armand had chosen to express it, Jean had always known that – whatever their disagreements outside these four walls – within them he is loved, and cherished, and safe.

Rochefort glares down at Treville, sprawled and gasping for breath through the pain, in the bed that had once been Richelieu’s. And Treville says, “A woman,” in a voice that almost does not shake.

“Very good,” Rochefort praises. Treville tries but can’t completely suppress the horrified shudder. In Rochefort’s silky tones the phrase loses all of the warm glow it would have carried coming from Armand. Treville doesn’t feel gratified by Rochefort’s praise; he knows too well it has teeth.

“So if I tell a woman to pleasure herself,” Rochefort prompts, “what does she do?”

Treville makes himself relax. This is still the warm-up, from Rochefort’s point of view. The appetizer before the main course. If Treville lets himself get worked up about this he’s got no chance of making it through the rest of the night without doing something rash.

“I suppose she touches her – her channel.”

“Channel. What a quaint term, Treville. I had no idea you were so modest. Very well. Yes, she probably stuffs her greedy little channel full, doesn’t she?” Rochefort’s fingers slide under Treville’s buttocks, tapping against the metal plug. “I see you’ve already learned that lesson, slut. Well done.”

Treville doesn’t reply.

“What else might a woman do?”

“I don’t know,” Treville grits out.

Rochefort shakes his head, mock-regretfully. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t,” he sighs. “After all, what woman would let you get close? Women, I’ve found, are very perceptive about these sorts of things. They’d be able to tell right away what kind of a man you are – or, rather, _aren’t_.”

Treville could laugh. He doesn’t, but it’s close. Every now and then something like this will happen: Rochefort will go down some road that he imagines is terribly humiliating or hurtful to Treville, and he’ll get it exactly wrong. This is one of those times. Rochefort isn’t saying anything that Treville hasn’t said to himself a thousand times before. If Rochefort were simply echoing the whisperings of Treville’s psyche, it would probably be very effective. But this knife is one Treville’s tormented himself with for most of his life. Armand had known it. He’d made it his personal mission to blunt it, file it down, and finally discard it completely. Armand had made it perfectly clear to Jean that conventional definitions of manhood had had no place within these walls or their relationship. That Armand’s pleasure in Jean had nothing to do with his ability or lack thereof to make inroads with the fairer sex. That, in fact, such things rather had pleased Armand’s possessive streak than not.

It hadn’t happened overnight. But ten years in Armand’s care has left Jean very satisfied with the sort of man he is. He’s exactly the sort of man Armand had wanted – wants – _had wanted,_ it must be the past tense, at least for now. But Treville couldn’t care less about Rochefort’s opinion on the matter.

Prudently, Treville lowers his eyes, letting Rochefort take it for shame. The Comte makes a satisfied sound.

“A woman would play with her breasts,” Rochefort condescends to explain. He makes a show of studying Treville’s chest. “You’re a little small in that department, aren’t you, Captain?”

Rochefort trails his fingers across one pectoral. He toys briefly with a nipple for a moment. Treville realizes what’s about to happen barely in time to brace himself before Rochefort seizes the nipple and twists like he’s going to tear it from Treville’s body.

“Sensitive, though,” Rochefort says in satisfaction.

Treville doesn’t answer, panting against the pillows. It’s just as well. Rochefort won’t take kindly to anything Treville has to say.

“I’m glad to see that. It will make this even more satisfying.” Rochefort finally slides off Treville’s body. “Now, slut, stimulate yourself. Properly, this time. I’m going to fetch what I need.”

Treville grits his teeth, but obeys, sliding one hand up to caress a nipple while the other goes down and traces the edges of the plug he’s still wearing. The little bit of lube that has leaked out around its base has gone sticky and dry. He’d been gambling on Rochefort wanting to fuck him immediately. That hasn’t happened. The presence of the plug is moving past discomfort and beginning to edge into outright pain. Still, it’s better the spikes Treville’s sending through his own body every time he tugs at his nipple. It’s not the one Rochefort had tormented – he’s at least able to avoid that – but it’s still bad. The physical sensation is bearable, but the queasy feeling in his stomach is doubling with every beat of Treville’s heart. Pleasurable, painful, it doesn’t matter. He’s always hated every kind of nipple stimulation.

No. Not always. Just since –

Rochefort turns around, and Treville’s heart sinks.

“Ahh, so you do know what these are,” Rochefort says, advancing. He’s holding a pair of nipple clamps by their connecting chain. They dangle from it on either side of his palm, swinging gently with Rochefort’s gait, ominous in the candle-light. “But, you know, it’s odd. I found these in the cabinet with the rest of the Cardinal’s toys. But they don’t seem to have been particularly well-maintained. A little rusty in parts; certainly not regularly oiled. Presumably not regularly used.”

Rochefort sets the clamps down on a small wooden table he keeps next to the bed. “It seems a little out of character for our Cardinal. All of the other toys were in good condition. It seems unusual for him to let this one slide.”

Treville swallows. Try as he might, he can’t take his eyes from the coil of metal and springs sitting on the table.

“Treville?” Rochefort prompts.

“He didn’t use them often,” Treville says hoarsely.

“Why not?”

“He didn’t like the results he got.”

That’s an understatement. It’s also an evasion. It’s not Armand who had had the problem with the clamps, but Jean. Armand hadn’t liked the results he’d gotten by using them because he didn’t like it when Jean panicked, or threw up, or ended up catatonic in bed. Treville has a sinking feeling that Rochefort will like all of those things very much.

Indeed, Rochefort picks up on the ambiguity in Treville’s words immediately. “And what were those results that he disliked so much?”

Treville doesn’t answer. It doesn’t matter. When Treville finally tears his gaze away from the hated objects and looks back at his tormentor, Rochefort is wearing a satisfied smile.

“So the Cardinal decided to go easy on you,” Rochefort muses. “The old fool always was too soft. Lay back, Treville, and as I put these on you, you’re going to tell me exactly why you hate them so.”

Treville stares at Rochefort. For a moment, he teeters on the edge of losing it completely. The revulsion that sweeps over him is so strong that he nearly can’t control it. All of his instincts scream to fight back. To flee. To do something, anything, besides lay back on the bed and allow Rochefort to do this to him.

He has to fight his own body every step of the way. Each muscle locks in place and must be individually relaxed. Every breath feels like it will be his last. Treville’s throat constricts, nearly choking him, and when he finally succeeds in getting supine the glare of candle-light reflecting off the ceiling nearly blinds him.

Rochefort watches it all in fascination. He obviously senses that he’s stumbled across something very special here. The Comte doesn’t complain that Treville takes nearly five minutes to comply with his request. He takes Treville’s struggle in, savoring it like fine brandy.  

“Now,” Rochefort says when it’s done. “Tell me.”

“The Cardinal used them once,” Treville says hoarsely. “He didn’t like the results he got. He decided not to use them again.”

“I can’t imagine why. If it’s anything like the results I’m getting, I’d never go without them.”

Treville’s throat closes completely. For a terrifying moment he can’t breathe. His blood roars in his ears, and his vision goes fuzzy, before he grasps some kind of control and makes his body relax.

“Fascinating,” Rochefort muses. “Simply fascinating.”

“I told you what you wanted to know.”

“Not even a little bit. But I’m in a good mood tonight. I’ll make you a deal.”

 _Liar,_ Treville thinks despairingly. Rochefort never makes deals when he’s in a good mood. Only when he’s in a bad one. And there’s no deal that ever ends up as anything but an agonizing defeat.

“I want to know the story. The reason why you hate these so much.” Rochefort picks up the clamps again, running the chain through his fingers, warming it. “If you tell it to me, after tonight I’ll put these away in their drawer. And I won’t take them out unless you ask me to.”

Treville forces more air through his lungs. It’s a terrible deal. _If you ask me to_ is Rochefort-speak for _until I torture you into it._ Right now Treville doesn’t think there’s anything in the world that could persuade him to do it. But Rochefort’s proven Treville wrong before.

But if he doesn’t agree, Rochefort will simply use the clamps every night until Treville begs to be given the deal back. And all that will have changed is that Treville is worse off at the beginning, and Rochefort will have added another humiliating rider or two to Treville’s side of the bargain.

“I’ll tell you,” Treville whispers. He keeps his gaze fixed on the ceiling.

Rochefort’s smirk is audible in his voice. “I thought so.”

A soft squeak can be heard, now that the rushing in Treville’s ears has died down. It’s the clamps being loosened.

“Start talking,” Rochefort instructs.

“When I was a boy, my father caught me in the hay barn with another youth. He was displeased.”

“I’m sure he was,” Rochefort agrees. He sets the clamps down on Treville’s stomach. With every breath Treville takes, he can feel them rising and falling. Rochefort’s fingers move northward to begin to tease and pluck Treville’s nipples in preparation.

Treville stares at the ceiling. _Don’t think about it,_ he commands himself. _Pretend it’s happening to someone else._

He’d had to tell Armand this story, too. He’d _wanted_ to tell Armand; the other man had deserved to know why Jean had reacted so badly to what should have been a simple request.

“My father had a solution. He took me to Bordeaux – a big city. There was a whorehouse there.”

He has to break off when Rochefort attaches the first clamp. A traitorous whine rises up in his throat. Treville chokes it ruthlessly off. He’ll be damned if he gives Rochefort the satisfaction of hearing him beg. Scream, yes. Treville has long since resigned himself to the fact that there’s nothing he can do to prevent letting Rochefort making him scream. At least, nothing he’s willing to do. He _could_ end this at any time. It would be so easy. A twist, a roll, and Rochefort’s neck would snap under his hands. Like a twig. Like nothing at all. And then it would be over…

Over. Yes. And not just for Treville. Over for Richelieu, too. Over for his Musketeers. Possibly for the King and for France.

“There are whorehouses in many cities,” Rochefort notes, twisting the clamp tight. “Why Bordeaux?”

Wetness starts to tickle at the corner of Treville’s eyes. It’s not from the pain. At least, not from the physical pain. Rochefort has done much worse than this to him over the past six months. Hell, Rochefort has done much worse than this to him _tonight_. It’s something deeper than pain. Older. More raw.

 _It’s all right,_ Armand had soothed, when Jean had tried to tell him this story and broken down in tears. _You don’t have to tell me until you’re ready._

Of course, that had only made Jean more determined to tell Armand everything. He’d never been able to willingly let Armand down in anything.

_And I’m not going to let him down in this, either._

“One of the whorehouses there had a specialty. On the side. Not advertised. For men like me.”

“You mean for _women_ like you,” Rochefort corrects. He twists the clamp one turn past endurance. Treville’s muscles seize again, and his breath starts coming in short pants.

He can feel it now. Feel the metal teeth digging into sensitive skin. Just like it had, when…

A burst of pain blooms on one cheek. A moment later and it does the same on the other. Treville blinks back into focus with a gasp. Rochefort is looming over him, looking very displeased.

“You pass out when I say you pass out,” he hisses. He holds up the second clamp threateningly. “Tell me the rest.”

“They said the right kind of training could cure me,” Treville gasps. “They said the problem was I was paying attention to the wrong parts of my body. They said, if I associated them with pain, I would never want to have them touched again.”

He’d been a youth then. Not a soldier. Not yet used to everything that could be done to a body. Perhaps if Treville were to go there today, he’d find their techniques laughable and their attempts to inflict pain well below his tolerance. But back then he’d been young and scared and confused, and he’d loved his father, and he’d so desperately wanted to make things right.

“It doesn’t seem to have worked, does it?” Rochefort muses. He’s playing with Treville’s free nipple, but idly, as if he’s distracted. “You spread your legs for Richelieu easily enough.”

Not easily. No, it hadn’t been easy at all. Richelieu had had Treville’s measure at the first glance, the great judge of character seeing straight to Treville’s soul and all that had been in it. Why Richelieu had wanted to waste his time with the mess Treville had been remains a mystery. But the Cardinal had wanted the Captain, and so the Cardinal had gotten him. Richelieu had devoted months of careful work just to getting Treville in bed. And then he’d devoted years to repairing Jean. Years of finding all of Treville’s buried triggers and time bombs, digging them up and defusing them. Years of emptying out all of the rotten things at Treville’s core. Years of building something new, something better, something to fill Treville up and make him whole again. Whole and complete and a better man than he’d ever dared to hope he could be.

And then after that – after giving Treville the incalculable gift of his self back – Richelieu had gone one step further. He’d given Treville his love. His protection. And the control and ownership that Jean had always needed.

It’s for that reason that Treville would walk blindfolded into Hell itself at Richelieu’s command. It’s for that reason Jean kneels eagerly for Armand and wears his collar and his mark with pride. And it’s for that reason that Treville lies here, letting Rochefort dig back into all the old wounded places Richelieu had healed. Lets Rochefort break open the scars and make him bleed anew. Because it’s what Richelieu needs. And because, if Treville just holds on, Richelieu will put him back together again one day.

“Not easily,” Treville says out loud. His voice is quiet. But it doesn’t shake.

“Hmm,” Rochefort says, and attaches the second clamp.

The world goes away for a brief slice of eternity. Treville comes to with his cheeks stinging. Rochefort is furious, shouting at him to wake up, dammit, _now_.

 _Strange,_ Treville thinks, distantly. _I thought this is what he wanted_.

Apparently not. Apparently panic attacks don’t fit Rochefort’s brand of sadism.

Rochefort seizes the chain between the clamps and pulls. The pain clears Treville’s mind with a sudden rush, and he sits up as quickly as he can, following the pull on his agonized nipples. Even once he’s sitting up Rochefort doesn’t let the chain go. Rochefort uses it as a leash and holds it taut, keeping up the pressure, not letting Treville forget the clamps.

As if he could. As if there’s any chance in hell of that happening. But Rochefort apparently believes in making sure.

He’ll have nightmares from this for a long time.

Rochefort maneuvers himself to put his back against the headboard, tugging Treville along. “I was going to put you right on my cock,” he says, annoyance still thick in his voice. “But you decided not to play along. So now you’ll have to get me ready.”

The Comte gestures to his groin, where, indeed, he’s only at half-mast. It’s the first time Treville’s ever seen Rochefort react to Treville’s degradation with anything less than eagerness. Panic attacks must _really_ not work for him. Absurdly, Treville feels a flicker of hope. Perhaps the deal won’t turn out so terribly for him after all, if Rochefort decides he’s uninterested in revisiting the clamps and everything that goes with them.

“Mouth or hands?” Treville asks resignedly.

“Mouth,” Rochefort says, eyes glittering. He loops the chain around one hand and settles it against his chest. Treville eyes its length with dismay. There’s enough slack for him to suck Rochefort to hardness – barely.

“Well?” Rochefort inquires. The veneer of mildness is long gone; the menace is naked in his voice now. “Wait for something, slut?”

Treville doesn’t bother to answer; it’ll just get him slapped. He takes a breath, bracing himself. Reminding himself of all the reasons he’s doing this. Then he slithers down Rochefort’s body in one motion and puts his mouth on Rochefort’s cock.

Gags himself, really. It muffles the groan of pain Treville can’t quite suppress, when the chain goes taut and his nipples shriek in protest. Part of his mind is gibbering in remembered horror. He locks it out grimly and focuses on the fellatio he’s been commanded to perform. He just has to do this. He just has to survive this. And maybe Richelieu will let Treville watch when the Cardinal ends Rochefort’s life.

Rochefort’s cock hardens rapidly on Treville’s tongue. In only moments Rochefort is tugging Treville up, again using the clamps’ chain like a leash. That’s what Rochefort wants, anyway. An animal. Treville lets himself be yanked around like one. Lets himself be pulled into Rochefort’s lap, the plug he’s been wearing pulled out – none too gently – and replaced with Rochefort’s cock. Unlubricated and unyielding, the lube Treville had used on himself earlier gone tacky, it shoves its way in with all the ease of a sword through someone’s guts.

Without intending to, Treville starts to slip further into an entirely different headspace. This isn’t about sex anymore. This isn’t about the story being dragged out of Treville. This is about power. About domination and control. About Rochefort, wanting to destroy everything Richelieu had ever built – including Treville.

This is torture. And Treville has a lifetime’s practice in withstanding torture. He’s been subjected to it in the King’s service. Not often. But one doesn’t have to be tortured often for one to become very expert at it indeed.

With Armand, when Armand had tried this, Jean had broken down. But Jean had had the luxury of breaking down. Treville doesn’t. Not until now does he truly appreciate the distinction. Even the act of breaking down, of vomiting, of weeping, had required trust. At the time it hadn’t felt that way. At the time Jean had believed that being unable to see it through, being unable to satisfy this desire of Armand’s, had been evidence that he _didn’t_ trust Armand. That he had been a failure.

Now he knows better. Now Treville truly understands what Armand had tried to tell him, that day and many days after. If Jean hadn’t trusted Armand, if Jean had truly failed, he’d have reacted to Armand the way Treville is reacting to Rochefort now. By shutting down. By locking it all away. By going still and silent and setting himself grimly to endure.

If he ever sees Armand again, he’ll tell Armand he understands now.

It seems to go on for a lifetime. It seems to take no time at all. Treville experiences it all as flashes. The now-familiar pain of being fucked with no consideration for his flesh. Rochefort’s sneer. The memories spiraling before his eyes, kaleidoscopic, everything he thought he’d managed to overcome. Everything that floods back into him now through the twin points of agony in his chest. The suspended moment at the top of every bounce, where the pain briefly ebbs, before slamming back into Treville as he slams back down on Rochefort’s cock. Rochefort’s hand in Treville’s hair, grabbing, pulling his head back, making him arch his back and stretch his chest and _scream_ –

The warm wetness of Rochefort’s release staining Treville’s passage. Being shoved off Rochefort’s cock, left to fall carelessly back on the bed. One last cruelty: the clamps being removed in a single yank, tearing a layer of skin off each oversensitive nipple, leaving him raw and gasping.

For a moment Treville drifts into an hallucinatory state. He’s familiar with this stage of an interrogation. Overloaded, unable to process all the sensory inputs, the mind conjures up a known safe harbor. What Treville hallucinates is not even a surprise. He’s in Armand’s chamber, Armand’s bed, surrounded by the familiar trappings, staring up at the familiar canopy. It’s no wonder he imagines Armand himself come to help him. Cool hands soothing a raw, abused body. Tender words caressing a bleeding heart. Absolution forgiving a damaged soul.

“Don’t get too comfortable, slut,” Rochefort says, shattering the fantasy. “I still have plans for you.”

Treville manages to roll his head to the side and crack one eye open. He aches as if he’s been flogged from head to toe. It’s difficult to focus. But he does manage it, in the end, then wishes he hadn’t.

Rochefort has pulled the small, carved wooden table up to the head of the bed. On it he’s laid down a roll of black fabric. He undoes the clasps deftly and flicks it open, revealing a long, gleaming row of _very_ sharp knives.

“Spanish knives,” Rochefort says, noticing Treville’s gaze. “The Infanta herself gave them to me before she came to France to be married. In gratitude for my faithful service.”

 _Why would she give you_ knives _?_ Treville wonders for a lunatic moment. He files the thought away for later. Maybe it’s something Richelieu will understand. Maybe it’s something he can use. Maybe it will hasten Armand’s return and the final demise of the man sliding the first knife out of its holster, turning it to catch the lamplight, and smiling down at it with the most twisted expression of love Treville has ever seen.

“I’d better tie you down for this part, I’m think, Captain,” Rochefort muses. “I know you’d _try_ to be good for me. But once I get going I don’t think you’ll be able to avoid moving. And an artist absolutely hates it when his canvas doesn’t behave.”

* * *

It’s nearly dawn before Rochefort finally tires of his sport. Somehow Treville drags himself out of the Palais-Cardinal and back to the garrison without anyone noticing him. His own bed has never felt so good. He passes out almost immediately, exhaustion and pain overwhelming thirst and the desperate need to shower, to wipe away what Rochefort had done to him.

Treville wakens to gentle hands touching him, urging him to roll over onto his front. For a dizzying moment he thinks it’s Armand waking him up after a lazy night for one more round. Then whoever it is pulls his shirt away from the knife-wounds on his back and he groans, memory returning in a rush.

“You look like you had an encounter with a wood-chipper,” Milady says, delicate fingers tapping spikes of pain down his spine. “Rochefort fancies himself an artist, I’ve heard. This looks like it’s supposed to be his initials. You let him do this?”

“Didn’t have a lot of choice,” Treville gasps.

“You’re not even fighting him anymore,” Milady says in disgust. “Stay still. I’ll get my kit. Better not let Aramis see this.”

Silently Treville agrees. The last thing he needs is for his Musketeers to be asking even more questions than they already are.

But he can’t let the first part of her statement go. “I’m fighting him,” he protests. “Just not in the way you think.”

“I suppose you’re referring to our work for the Cardinal.” Milady’s weight settles back next to him on the bed; out of the corner of his eye, Treville sees her threading a sharp, gleaming needle. “That’s not the sort of fighting I meant and you know it.”

“It’s the sort of fighting left to me,” Treville says wearily.

“Breathe in.” Milady starts stitching up the worst of it; Treville bites down hard on his pillow to keep still. It’s not the first time he’s had to do something like this and it won’t be the last. Armand had teased him about the habit a few times, usually after their lovemaking had turned particularly rough and Armand had left bruises that would last for days. He’d carried Armand’s bruises proudly, though. Rochefort’s wounds he’d erase if he could. He just hopes these cuts won’t scar.

“All done.” Milady ties off the thread and smooths a cloth over Treville’s back, where the itch of dried blood has been driving him mad. “You know, I don’t think this is what the Cardinal meant when he said I was to keep you alive in his absence.”

“I don’t think he meant letting me get shot, either,” Treville snaps. “You certainly didn’t seem to have trouble reinterpreting his orders then.”

“We’ve had this conversation already. You know why I did it. You agreed with me.”

“And you know why I’m doing this. So just shut up about it, okay?”

“I think there’s a difference between getting his lover shot and getting his lover raped.”

“Don’t.” Treville tries to roll over, gasps, and has to be helped onto this side by Milady. “Don’t say that word.”

“It’s the right word.”

“Richelieu wouldn’t like it.”

“You fool, it’s not the _word_ he wouldn’t like, it’s the reality.” Milady brings a glass of water to his lips; Treville sips gratefully.

“He doesn’t need to know.”

Milady gives him a look of pure disbelief. “You think he doesn’t know already?”

“That’s not what I meant.” Treville pushes the glass away; he’s had enough. “Of course he knows that – that I’m sleeping with Rochefort. That’s bad enough. He doesn’t have to know – ”

“That Rochefort gets off on hurting you? That he likes to see you bleed, physically and emotionally? That he glories in treating you like a cheap whore?”

“Yes,” Treville says, avoiding looking Milady in the eye.

She sighs. “You can’t keep doing this, Treville. You _can’t_. Rochefort’s kind aren’t satisfied by the same old thing over and over again. First it was bruises. Today it’s scars. One of these times Rochefort will do the shooting himself. You’ll end up dead or crippled – ”

“I didn’t know you cared,” Treville says wryly. He has to hide a yawn. Exhaustion is swamping over him again.

Milady tosses her hair. “Well, there’s no way I can face the Cardinal if I let that happen. I’d have to skip town. I’d probably have to skip the country.”

“No more cushy lifestyle,” Treville deadpans. “No more pretty dresses and opportunities for murder.”

“Exactly. So you see my motivations.”

Treville sighs. His eyes begin to droop closed without his permission. “I’ll be fine.”

“No you won’t,” Milady says, vexed. “You have to – ”

Blindly he reaches out for her, finds and squeezes her hand. She can’t say it – she may not even know it herself – but she’s worried for him. That makes him feel a little better.

“Armand says it will be soon,” he mumbles. “Just a few more weeks.”

“He could be wrong. It could take months yet. Treville – ”

“Jus’ a few more weeks,” he insists. His breathing evens out. “I can do it. For him.”

Sleep crowds in and takes him. Treville falls backwards into it. So deep and complete is its grasp that he doesn’t see Milady’s huff of disapproval. Nor does he see her reach out and touch his forehead quickly, checking for fever, or refill the glass of water by his table.

But Jean dreams. And he passes the night in the phantom embrace of someone gentle and kind. Someone who would do all of these things for him if they could, who loves him, and who leaves their marks on his body because they care.


End file.
